Opening Up

by R. J. Moray

  “Is that all you said?” Jack asked, frowning. Was it better or worse that it was vague? Would that just make people talk more?

  Channon looked up at him with big eyes gone dark under the dimmed lights of the dining area. “Did you want me to say something else, Sir? I didn’t know, I thought—”

  “It’s fine,” Jack said, and he didn’t miss the way Channon winced. “I didn’t tell you what to say. You did fine.”

  It didn’t seem to help. Channon passed on his list and some office gossip, but his heart was clearly not in it, and Jack felt that like an accusation. Channon was tired because of Jack, he had to deflect questions because of Jack. Now he was trying to entertain Jack, and Jack was thoroughly sick of being the focus of his concern when it was over something so completely unwanted.

  He wanted Channon’s focus another way. Something different. Something fun.

  Play, perhaps. He wasn’t supposed to, of course—it would probably come under the heading of ‘too much exertion’—but besides play, what was there? They could go out. Maybe go see a movie? Except no, they couldn’t do that. Jack wasn’t allowed screens or bright lights, for fuck’s sake.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said, smiling at him. “Let’s go down to the beach.”

  “It’s almost winter,” Channon said, wrinkling his nose. “We’ll die.”

  “Not to swim, just to walk down the waterfront.”

  Channon considered it, chewing his food. “Okay,” he said, after some unknowable calculation had been completed. “Let’s do that.”

  Channon insisted on driving. Jack had expected he would—Channon usually did these days, when they weren’t using the car service or going to the Club or a play party. Jack enjoyed being chauffeured and Channon liked driving, but now? It felt like something Channon was taking away from him, something withheld. Jack resented it, though it was quite reasonable.

  They parked at the north end, where the beach gave way to a jetty and a boardwalk with its many dubious attractions. It was cold out, but Jack felt over-swathed and unwound his scarf.

  Channon gave him a disapproving look. “You’ll catch a cold.”

  “You sound like my mom,” Jack mocked.

  This had very little effect. “I like your mom. I’m okay with that.”

  A truck was selling hot nuts—Jack bought a bag of them to share because that was way too much salt for one person. Channon stuck to his flank as they walked down in the half-light, the sea a vast black nothingness on one side, Santa Rita bright and noisy on the other.

  “You don’t go to the beach much,” Channon observed.

  Jack shrugged. “Sand gets everywhere.”

  “But you moved here. Don’t you like it?”

  “I came for the climate, not the beach. Plus, there were a lot of opportunities back then. Still are, for a startup.”

  “Was it hard, starting your own business?”

  “Yes and no. It was better than working for anyone else. I never really got the hang of that.”

  Channon shivered, and Jack put an arm around him. “I like working for Mr Scott. And you, but…I mean, Nate’s the one who really tells me what to do at work.”

  “Nate’s a champ,” Jack agreed. “I couldn’t have done any of it without him.”

  “You like him.”

  “I do. He’s my best friend.”

  “But he wasn’t your boyfriend.”

  Jack hesitated. He’d always answered this particular question with a ‘no’ because he’d never really thought of it that way. But now… “I think he might have been, for a while, but I never really realized it.”

  “How come?”

  How to say this? “I didn’t want to admit that I might have liked that. I don’t know. It was complicated.”

  Channon took this in quietly. He pulled out from under Jack’s arm and leaned up against the railing, gazing out to sea. “Do you regret it? Not admitting that, I mean.”

  “It’s hard to say.” This was a moment for honesty, he knew it. He couldn’t conceal the truth from Channon, but to answer honestly meant knowing what the truth was. “Things might have turned out differently. But then, they might have turned out worse. I think we’re very lucky to be friends now and have what we have. Even Ewan,” Jack added, feeling charitable. “He’s good for Nate, somehow. I haven’t seen Nate this pleased with himself…ever.”

  Channon tossed a knowing look over his shoulder. “Nate likes Ewan because he’s bratty.”

  “I wish I understood why.”

  “I’m glad you don’t,” Channon said, turning to lean his elbows back on the railing. “If you got it, maybe you’d want one.”

  “You don’t think you could brat for me if I wanted?”

  Channon seemed to consider it. “I don’t know. Maybe in some kind of alternate universe.”

  “And I guess I’d have a goatee in this mirror-verse.”

  Channon grinned. “Sure. And I’d wear bondage gear in public.”

  It made Jack laugh, and the spike of pain that shot up behind his eye was blinding. “Fuck,” he muttered, covering his eye with one hand.

  He was so sick of this. Every time he started to feel normal again, this, a sharp reminder that he wasn’t, that he had no control over himself anymore. That he was human and fallible, and ultimately mortal.

  “Jack?”

  And that he had Channon to look after, and couldn’t. He was failing right now to be the man Channon needed him to be, and for Channon to see it was humiliating.

  What if it never changed? What if this were how it would be forever?

  “Do you need to sit down?”

  He did need to. He didn’t want to, however, so he gripped the railing as hard as he could and hung on to it until the dizziness passed.

  It faded slowly, leaving behind a low-grade nausea. Jack swallowed and took a deep breath of cold, salty air.

  “Sir?” Channon whispered.

  “I’m all right,” Jack told him, tipping his head back. God, if he could just get over this. “I just need a minute.”

  “Should we go home?”

  All those questions, never ending. “Just a minute of quiet,” he snapped, that spike still jammed into his eye socket. Migraines had always seemed such a feminine complaint, though he knew they weren’t. This, he thought bitterly, is how ingrained misogyny gets you.

  When he’d recovered enough to open his eyes, Channon was standing a little way off, his arms wrapped around himself, watching Jack with a blank expression.

  “I’m fine,” Jack said.

  “Are you?” Channon demanded.

  Jack blinked, unused to that sulky tone. “I said I was.”

  “Fine.” Channon turned away, glancing back down the boardwalk. “We should go home.”

  Jack wanted to argue with him, almost for the sake of arguing, so he said, “I thought we could ride the Ferris wheel.”

  Channon’s head snapped back, his eyes fixing on Jack’s like magnets. “You just…you can’t.”

  “What?” Jack said, completely taken aback.

  “You can’t just go on rides. There’s all the lights and, and—”

  “I think I know what I can and can’t do, Channon,” Jack said, his temper rising. “I’m not a fucking child.”

  Channon shrank back, but only for a moment. “You know you can’t.”

  “What I know,” Jack snapped, “is that it isn’t up to you to make decisions for me.”

  “Then make better decisions,” Channon said, and he turned away, his whole body tensed for a fight.

  Jack stared at him. What the hell was happening? Channon was never, ever like this. And he had a point, but Jack didn’t like it.

  “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  ❧

  Jack told himself he wasn’t in the wrong here, but the miserable look on Channon’s face as he drove made him wonder.

  Channon had been trying to stop him from doing what he wanted, but when it came down to it, his reas
ons were obvious. For Jack’s own good. Just like his mom, just like Nate. Except the difference was that when Jack dug in his heels with them, they just ignored him and did whatever they liked.

  With Channon it was different. Channon was supposed to be at Jack’s whims, Jack’s to order around. Because Jack knew best, and Channon was…what? Not a child. But still, Jack’s responsibility.

  And now Channon had accused him of making bad decisions. Which, he supposed, had a grain of truth to it. He knew he shouldn’t do anything fun or useful or interesting at all, but it chafed so badly. He hated this inactivity. Just a walk by the sea and laughing at something Channon had said brought him down so easily.

  It was intensely frustrating, but looking at Channon’s pale, pinched expression, he could see it wasn’t a walk in the park for Channon either.

  Had he snapped at Channon? He had, because his head hurt and he felt helpless, and a wave of remorse for that crashed over him, leaving him cold and guilty. He’d snapped at his boy, who was only trying to help. What a fucking fantastic Dom I am, he berated himself, the thought sharp-edged with sarcasm. What a wonderful boyfriend.

  Home was a familiar prison. Jack racked his shoes and then his brain. What could he say to make things right?

  “Do you want tea?” Channon asked.

  There was, Jack noted, no ‘Sir’ tacked on the end of it. In fact, Channon hadn’t called him ‘Sir’ since dinner. Had Channon stopped because Jack was ill? The thought unnerved him, the idea that his wellness and Channon’s respect for him were somehow intertwined.

  Maybe Channon needed a reminder. But more than that, Jack owed him an apology.

  “No,” Jack said. “Channon, come here.”

  The speed with which Channon obeyed him was gratifying. This, at least, was intact between them.

  He lifted a hand to Channon’s cheek, and Channon tipped his face into it, nuzzling him. Jack watched, his chest aching. Channon was his. But more than that, Jack was Channon’s. He owed Channon more than his poor temper and the duties of a nursemaid.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m not angry with you.”

  Channon shivered, glancing up at Jack from under those thick, black eyelashes. “Okay.”

  “I’m just tired of being cooped up.”

  “With me,” Channon said miserably.

  “No, that’s not it at all.” Jack saw Channon flinch and realized how tetchy he sounded. He tried to moderate it, tried to sound patient. “You know I’d like nothing better than to keep you home with me for a week, a week of having you at my beck and call.” Channon stirred, looking up at him again, and Jack let the idea unfurl. “Would you like that? My plaything for a whole week, no decisions to make, only orders to follow. How does that sound?”

  “Good,” Channon said, but Jack couldn’t help noticing that missing ‘Sir’. “I’d like that.”

  “What else would you like?” Jack cupped Channon’s face in his hands, stroking those high cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. “Something sweet.” Something to make it up to Channon for all the worry and stress and running after Jack like Jack was an invalid. Something indulgent. Something special. “A reward for you.”

  But Channon pulled away, his expression shuttering. “I don’t need a reward. I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

  “I thought we agreed that you don’t get to be the judge of that.”

  Channon shook his head, his brow furrowing. “You can’t. You’re not supposed to.”

  Jack forced a smirk. “I think I should be the one who decides what I can and can’t do. If I want to fuck my boyfriend, then I’m going to fuck my boyfriend, and no one gets to tell me I can’t.”

  Channon’s breath hitched. For a moment Jack thought Channon was going to go to his knees, but then— “Red,” Channon said.

  It crashed over Jack like ice water. One word, and he felt sick. Red. Channon had let Jack spank him to tears, had taken the cane until he cried, had allowed Jack to hurt him again and again for nothing at all, and he’d not once used a safeword to get out of it. Not even pain he didn’t like, pain that was only for Jack.

  And now he’d said it because Jack had fucked up. Because it was the only way he knew to make Jack stop, and Jack hadn’t been listening.

  God, what had he done?

  Chapter Five

  “Channon,” Jack said, but Channon couldn’t let him finish.

  “I said, ‘Red.’”

  Jack held up his hands. “I heard you. I’ve stopped. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “You can’t just…” Channon clenched his teeth, hating how it felt to talk to Jack like this, hating the way his muscles wanted to fold him up at Jack’s feet. “I’m not your slave.”

  Now Jack looked like Channon had slapped him. The shock and horror in his face was too much to bear, so Channon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to find the words to tell Jack everything.

  “If I was, if that was our thing, then I’d let you do it. I wouldn’t have any other choice because I’d have given you that, the power to take all my choices away. But I’m not a slave. I’m not furniture, not all the time. I’m your boy, and I love you, and you like it when I do things for you. Serving you and, and caring about you. So, you don’t get to take that away now, just because you’re…you’re bored.” He took a deep breath, opening his eyes and forcing himself to look Jack in the face. “I don’t care if you get mad at me, or you punish me later, but right now I’m trying to take care of you because you won’t. And you won’t listen to anyone, so there’s no one else to do it.”

  Jack stared at him, his expression strange. In this light he looked well, tall and strong and broad shouldered, the man who could hold Channon up against a wall and fuck him senseless or pin him down and take him so hard he cried. His Sir. Dominant and powerful and not to be baited or ignored.

  It took everything Channon had not to bow his head and kneel at Jack’s feet, to kiss them and beg for forgiveness. But he couldn’t. He had to stand his ground. If he caved now, he’d never get the chance again, and Jack—

  “I’m fine,” Jack said, and Channon felt it like a punch in the gut.

  “You’re not!” he burst out, clenching his hands into fists that shook and shook. “You could have died! You keep getting headaches and, and dizzy spells, and you don’t tell me the truth about any of it, you just say you’re fine. I’m not stupid,” he said, and that seemed to touch a nerve because Jack surged forward, his hands coming up to wrap around Channon’s shoulders.

  “No, you’re not stupid,” he said, his voice wrenched in something like grief. “Channon, I’m sorry.”

  “I just want to help,” Channon told him, feeling his throat close on the misery building in his chest. “Let me help. Don’t lie to me.”

  The sound Jack made went straight to Channon’s heart, this pained groan like Channon had hurt him. Then Jack was pulling him in, tucking Channon against his chest and holding him there. Channon clung to him, all his words drying up, his throat full of something horrifying and nameless.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Jack said, stroking Channon’s scalp with his strong, possessive fingers. “I didn’t want to worry you. And all I’ve done is worry you. I never meant that, I just…” He sighed and pressed a kiss to Channon’s hair. “I want to be fine. I don’t want to tell you I’m not because that makes it real.”

  Channon squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in Jack’s shoulder. “But you’re not.”

  “No. Not yet. And…it’s scary.”

  So fucking scary, and worse when Jack wouldn’t tell him the truth. But he was now, so Channon stayed silent, listening to him and loving him as hard as he could.

  “I’m scared that I might not get better. I might always have these fucking migraines. And balance issues, and dizziness. And if I don’t get over it, what does that mean? I can’t run the company like this, Nate’s made that perfectly clear. I can’t drive. I can’t work out. I’ll get fat, and…I can’t afford to b
e weak. I’d have to give up so many things, things I love to do. With you.” He squeezed Channon, tucking him in under his chin. “What if I had a dizzy spell in a scene? We’d have to give up rope. Or I would, and I don’t know if I could watch you be tied up by someone else, knowing I couldn’t give you that. God, I want to take you to bed and show you how much I love you, but I can’t, I’m just useless like this, and—”

  “You’re not useless,” Channon blurted out. He was interrupting his Sir, but he couldn’t help it. “Sir, you’re not. And I don’t care. If all that happens, I don’t care. I’m scared too but not of that. I’m scared you’ll make it worse, and you’ll die, and then, then you’ll be dead, and I’ll be alone, and I’ll know I could have stopped you, and it’ll be my fault.”

  “No, sweetheart,” Jack shifted him, turning Channon’s chin up to kiss him in the corner of his mouth. “That’s not true. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Isn’t it?” Channon felt like his words were dragged through mud, thick in his throat, his eyes burning with the unspoken fear that had been living in him since he’d got that first call to tell him that Jack was in hospital.

  “No.” Jack kissed him again, tender with him now as if he were bruised all over, which was how he felt. “I didn’t know you were worried about that. I’m sorry. I should have asked.”

  “You should have told me you were scared too,” Channon said, and Jack nodded, his eyes wet and raw in a way Channon didn’t think he’d ever seen before.

  “Yeah, I should have. I guess I thought I needed to keep it from you because I didn’t want you to worry about me. But instead I did the opposite. I’m a fucking idiot.”

  “No, you’re not,” Channon insisted, and he was pleased, just a little, to see Jack smile.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what Nate would call me.”

  It was relief, Channon thought, this loose, dizzy feeling. He leaned into Jack, mindful that Jack was still recovering and might not be able to take his weight. But Jack leaned back into him, and they stood wrapped up in each other, and it felt so good Channon found it hard to breathe.

  “Tell me what you need from me, sweetheart.”